


Aiodos

by silverr



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dionysus and Apollo disagree about many things - the true nature and ultimate fate of music being one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aiodos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddcellist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddcellist/gifts).



> Initially posted at <http://yuletidetreasure.org/archive/20/aoidos.html>
> 
> This story is copyright © 2005 under author's real name. All rights reserved.

_Noon - Olympus_

The golden light streaming through the high windows encountered not a single mote of dust - for dust was imperfection, and imperfection was banished from Olympus.

In the center of the room a figure in white stood, so shining that everything else dimmed in his presence: Apollo, son of Zeus. Wielder of the Golden Bow, this hour he plucked instead the strings of the kithara, filling the hall with precise, crystalline beauty.

His audience was attentive. On the thrones at the head of the hall were Father Zeus, his fingertips idly stirring the brown curls of the cup-bearer who sat at his feet, and Queen Hera, her proud eyes straight ahead. Along the sides were Artemis of the Silver Bow, admiration of her brother writ clearly on her face; Athena, her gray eyes thoughtful as she listened; and Hermes, who sat cross-legged at the base of a pillar across from where the Goddess of Beauty sat, her perfect lips slightly parted and her eyes shimmering. Next to Aphrodite was her husband, the lame smith Hephaestus, his bearded head nodding almost imperceptibly each time a note was struck.

Only one god seemed aloof to the charms of the music. At the back of the hall, a youth with a smoky, feline beauty reclined, his head on his arm. Long tendrils of dark hair fell over his nearly-closed eyes and cascaded over the shoulder left bare by his leopard skin garment. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sleepy smile, he studied the blond perfection of his austere half-brother.

.

_Dusk - Mount Nysa_

The sun had just left the sky when Apollo, descending like a comet, stepped onto the hillside. As there had been on Olympus, there was music here, and an audience - but in all other ways the scene was dissimilar.

Men and women played the double-reeded aulos, weaving a melody over and through the sound of drums while dancers spun and trampled the ground. Around the edge of the clearing, bodies writhed and panted in the shadows. Panther, leopard, and lynx stalked unchallenged among the lovers and dancers.

Dionysus reclined, surrounded by adoring men and women, his arms around long-haired youths - boys or maids, it was not possible to tell. As Apollo approached Dionysus asked with mock concern, "A look of distress? What calamity has furrowed the Pythian's divine brow?"

Apollo asked, "You found my music deficient?"

"It's true, I'm fonder of other types."

"Other types?"

"Music with the rhythm of a heartbeat. The sound of wind and surf and an eagle's flight. Music with more… feeling." This last word was addressed to the youth on his left side.

Apollo pressed his lips together. "Music that appeals only to the senses and interferes with clear thinking."

"You do not approve?"

"True art arises only from tranquility and objective detachment. Any other mode of creation - or appreciation - is inferior."

"Oh? Well, in my mode," Dionysus said, smiling, "there is stillness… afterward."

"Exhaustion," Apollo's eyes flicked to where a woman was slipping her hand beneath the leopard skin, "is not tranquility."

Dionysus studied Apollo for a moment, then reached up to the woman, pulled her down to him, and kissed her languorously.

As Apollo turned and strode away Dionysus called after him, "Envious, brother?"

The son of Leto stopped, looked back. His golden hair glowed in the dusk like a blood moon. "Of what?"

"That so many are drawn to my warmth."

Apollo turned. "No. They are weak and easily dazzled." He added mildly, "And after all, do not their philosophers say that like is drawn to like?"

Dionysus shrugged lazily. "Perhaps. But they also say that opposites are drawn together even more strongly."

"So in their philosophy, as in all other things, they contradict themselves."

"Or perhaps Truth is not so simply measured out."

Apollo was unruffled. "My music is divine, and so pleases the gods. And children of gods."

"Ah, and my music is base, and therefore pleases only mortals?" When Apollo did not answer Dionysus continued. "It is true that I alone of all the gods had a mortal mother, and that the divine ichor that flows now through my veins was once human blood, as red as pomegranates. But this allows me to understand both worlds - Heaven and Earth."

"And what of it? Possessing things of no value - even a countless number of them - does not constitute wealth."

"I had forgotten you were a mathematician," Dionysus murmured. "Still, weigh well whether all I possess is worthless, Phoebus of the Shining Brow. Lovers come to my bed willingly - and stay there. I have no need pay bribes or punish them for unfaithfulness. Do you know why?"

Apollo scowled slightly.

"The truth is in your music as well as your countenance: you offer light without warmth. Lovers flee from you because they know you touch the kithara's strings the way that you would touch them. Detached, passionless."

Dionysus stood, commanded his attendants to stay with a gesture, and moved to Apollo's side. "I can teach you to do otherwise, if you would let me."

"The centuries will bear out that I and my music are superior," Apollo said, his voice cold at last. "Dorian and Phrygian will outlive Lydian and Ionian."

"Oh?" Dionysus folded his arms. "Would you care to make a wager?"

.

_Sunset - Delphi_

On a ledge under two sheer crags, by the stream of Castalia, where the eye looks down on the plain below, dark-green with olive trees and flecked with the shadows of eagles, and over it to the sea and the mountains of the Peloponnese beyond….

Apollo and Dionysus entered the darkness and came upon the priests, crouching in obeisance. Wordless, unquestioning, the men left the cave to their divine visitors.

Continuing further, the gods entered the main chamber of the cave. To one side, a stone slab held bowls of barley, a basket of pale fronds, and a pile of laurel boughs, the stiff glossy leaves black as dried blood in the dim light.

In the center of the cave, a honeycombed brazier of coals sat over the _omphalos_ , the navel of the world. Vapors rose from this crack in the floor to swirl around the seated priestess.

Dionysus went to her, extended a hand. "Grandmother."

Ancient and blind, she took Dionysus' arm, rose to her feet, bowed deeply, and left them.

When she had gone, Apollo made to place a branch on the coals. Dionysus took his wrist. "Not that way."

Apollo looked surprised. "It is the way. The Pythia burns these leaves and breathes the smoke."

"We are not mortal women," Dionysus said, "able to withstand only the briefest droplets of the future."

He took the branch from Apollo and stripped off a leaf. "As gods, we can dive into the very cataract of time. But to share the vision, we must share this." He placed the leaf between his teeth, then leaned forward, challenge and expectation making his eyes bright.

Apollo hesitated; then took the leaf from between Dionysus's teeth, tore it in two, then ate a half as he handed the other back to the dark-haired god. "I will not be pleased if this is all a trick," he said. "You said you would show me whose music will endure, yours or mine." He paused, doubt flickering over his face. "We are both known, in the ages to come, are we not?"

Dionysus was amused. "Oh yes, we are." Never taking his eyes from Apollo, he placed the other half of the leaf on his tongue, then swallowed it and asked, "Tell me - do you want to see only your worshipers? Have you courage or curiosity enough to see mine as well?"

Apollo was resolute. "I honor truth. Show me all."

"As you wish." Dionysus moved the brazier, then touched the fissure in the earth with the tip of his thrysus. The rock shuddered and split wider, filling the cave with a dull red glow. Dionysus then set the thrysus aside, and then let his garments slide from his body to the cave floor.

Apollo was surprised. "What is this?"

"We emerge from our mothers naked," Dionysus said smoothly. "We must descend into her the same way."

After Apollo removed his robe they descended into the _omphalos_. In the lower chamber a dark presence reached out, wrapping and caressing Dionysus with tendrils of smoke.

"Grandson," came a low voice from the rock. "It has been so long since you visited me."

"What?" asked Dionysus, leaning against the smoke. "Does Time himself keep track of each grain of sand?"

"Who better?" the voice rumbled. "Tell me, why have you descended to me?"

"Grandfather, I wish to take my immortal brother on a journey through the future age of men."

"Why?"

"To settle… a bet."

"Oh." Here the rumble came again, recognizable this time as laughter. "Well, in that case, I give my permission!" The smoky coils withdrew, leaving in Dionysus' hands a stone cup of shimmering fluid.

_._

_Night - Omphalos_

"The Seed of Time," Dionysus said, offering the cup to Apollo. "We will both drink, and journey together."

The stone surrounding them melted away, and for a moment they were at the center of a vast golden sphere; then it grew dark and Dionysus put his hand on Apollo's shoulder. A timeless interval passed; then the darkness was filled with sound of dozens of voices: choral music, gravely beautiful.

"These are my worshipers?" Apollo asked, at the sight of the rows of robed men.

"They are," he paused, "fervent followers of Truth, thirty centuries hence."

"Show me more," Apollo commanded.

The scene dissolved to show a temple within a temple, where a man pressed his fingers against a table of striped marble; above him, the wind rushed through dozens of gigantic bronze aulos to make a sound worthy of Poseidon.

"Why do you show me this trick of the wind?"

"Just listen," Dionysus urged, his lips soft against Apollo's ear, "listen to the progression of the sounds, not one sound alone."

Apollo's perfect brow furrowed slightly, then after a moment he exhaled with understanding. "Like beads on a string! It is a strange music, yet in it I can hear the player's search for Beauty."

"I knew you would," Dionysus breathed, his lips light on Apollo's throat. "More?"

"Yes."

The next scene was of a small room, as richly appointed with gold and tapestries as the Persian court. "What is that strange instrument, stringed like a lyre but shaped like a woman?" Apollo asked. "And that rod, arrow and bow combined?"

"It is played thus," Dionysus said, stroking his hand lightly across Apollo's waist just as the man below them drew the bow across the cello's waist to create liquid, aching beauty.

Apollo shuddered. "What is this? This - sound like a rain of petals, assembling to build a flower of sound?" He asked reluctantly, "Are these your followers then?"

"They are both, brother," Dionysus said. "Their music honors mind and heart at the same time. Reason and emotion. Spirit," he said, embracing the golden body, "and flesh."

Breathless, Apollo said, "It cannot continue thus!"

"Oh, but it does," Dionysus said.

... Strings and reeds together, horns and drums, creating music like a garden, a forest, a spill of color; boastful, boisterous, hopeful, striving; music martial and seductive, despairing and soothing; music like the Erinyes, darting, swarming like insects; music like the swirl of surf, horns darting in like sea birds; music like the clashing of swords in battle, like a shouted argument, like towering thunderclouds; music like a polite masked dance between enemies, or malicious laughter; music of inconsolable loneliness, of desperation, like a struggling bird caught in a trap; music of madness, a thousand stones dropped into an abyss; music of such courage and anguish that the eyes brimmed with tears… music like a caress, unbearable pleasure, multitudes moving together like a sea of wheat while music crashed against them in a tempest, sensation overwhelming the boundaries of self, crashing through rational thought in a torrent…

"Enough!" Apollo cried, his body arching in ecstasy, "enough! I concede!"

.

_Moonrise - The Triumph of Dionysus_

The darkness filled up with silence.

Apollo, spent, finally felt the body in his arms grow cold. "Why?" he asked, staring down at the dark-haired god.

"Perhaps it was his mortal taint?" came the voice from the stone.

"And what is this howling in my chest, this burning in my eyes?"

"Sorrow," answered Chronos.

Apollo kissed Dionysus, the first tears he had ever shed trailing over immortal skin; then he buried Dionysus where they lay and in his grief fled north to the land of the Hyperboreans.

Some time afterward, smoke flowed over the grave. As the moon rose an infant's cry threaded into the night, high and sweet and pure and perfect.

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> According to the Perseus Project, aoidos [aeidô] has the following meanings:  
> I. as noun 1. a singer, minstrel, bard 2. songstress, of the nightingale 3. an enchanter  
> II. as adj. tuneful, musical  
> The quote that opens the third section is from C.M. Bowra's The Greek Experience 1957 ed., p. 48.  
> The primary book consulted was Jean Shinoda Bolen's Gods in Everyman. It refreshed my memory about Apollo's miserable track record with women - Daphne ran away from him (and was turned into a laurel); he had to bribe Cassandra with the gift of prophecy in order to get her into his bed; and Coronis, the mother of Asclepius, was unfaithful to him and so he turned her into a crow. ~ In Bolen's book I also came across a myth that I had never heard (or perhaps forgotten): that Delphi was said to be the site of Dionysus's grave, and that Apollo ceded Delphi, three months of the year, to the eternally dying-and resurrecting Dionysus.  
> Two books I meant to dig out but couldn't find: Robert Graves' The Greek Myths (to verify the Bolen information) and Nietzsche's essay The Birth of Tragedy, which is about Dionysian and Apollonian modes in art.  
> For a far better fictional portrait of Dionysus than I have here, I can't recommend Cori Lannam's Ten Bowls of Wine highly enough. The other Yuletide stories of hers that I've read are also fantastic. Go - read, enjoy, review~!  
> A special thank-you to "C," who was very patient while I ignored him to write this story.  
> .  
> first post 21 Dec 2005  
> (5) 31 May 2007


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